


Of Dark and Bright

by CharmingNotDarling



Category: Elementary
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:58:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3108638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharmingNotDarling/pseuds/CharmingNotDarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one, including Joan her self, can doubt that she is a doctor today...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> A very, very, big thank you to the lovely and generous Nairobiwonders... for her time and opinions and most of all her kindness...

The day begins in sunshine. 

It begins with golden ribbons of light filtering through dusty windows, chasing shadows back beneath tables, under beds and deep within the furthest corners of the rooms. 

It begins with coffee, a well rehearsed confrontation on boundaries, too much television and the call for consultation. 

It begins in blood spatter and broken glass. 

The air is thick, heavy with the scent of copper and latex. There's no sunlight to speak of, only an artificial glow provided by a single hanging bulb and it casts shadows in varying shades of green and grey. 

Tiny emerald shards pepper the floor and they're slick with a coating of crimson. They glow in the golden lamp light while detectives (who are not Bell) in rumpled suits sip lukewarm coffee and ponder possibilities. They are wise enough to step aside and roll their eyes beyond the captains line of sight when faced with the realities of Holmes and Watson's investigative techniques. 

The captain respects said techniques and the detectives respect their captain. 

Notes are taken, deductions are made, and patience run thin and frail as the CSU team clear the scene and the coroner is given free rein. 

When they venture back out into daylight the air smells like spring and rain and exhaust. There's the sound of crunching gravel, the rattle of questions and the flash of red and blue lights. 

The day progresses in chaos. 

The body is brought out and there is pandemonium. A news photographer in a dark trench slips beneath the policy tape. There's shouting and shoving and two bursts of rippled air. They slice through the daylight and slam with certainty, center mass, into the captains chest. 

The hysteria skyrockets.

Watson's face is pressed against the beveled concrete, the heavy weight of Sherlock's chest pressing her further down, his arms draped protectively above her head. The concrete is cold and it tears at her skin. She tries to throw him off, to reach the captain, but he is relentless in his protection. 

It takes only a moment to realize the shots are not from the man in the trench but from an unknown location all together. 

The day continues in uncertainty. 

The room is full. A silent vigil made up of the few who witnessed and the many who worry. There are expressions still coated in the oily film of fear and shock. Hands stained red with ribbons of blood. It is wedged under fingernails and deep within the unique whorls of identity. 

Uniforms, suits, and plain clothes litter the waiting room. No one speaks. 

Joan Watson rubs absently at her wrist with a white towel gone crimson where the captains blood pooled and nearly dried beneath the band of her watch. 

No one, including Joan her self, can doubt that she is a doctor today. When she was able to free herself from Sherlock's grip, reassure him of her safety, she descended upon the captain without thought or hesitation. 

Her skill led the way.

She did what she could with what she had and stayed with him until the very end when they wheeled him down the yellow corridor and through the double doors that have not opened since. 

Sherlock was there when she was finally turned away. Armed with knowing eyes, a damp towel, and green tea still too hot to sip. He silently ushered her back down the hall, standing a little closer than usual but still too far to touch. He led them back down the yellow corridor that brought them to their current state; beige walls and brown plastic chairs and the eye of ever person in the room. 

Every body there turned towards her. 

He leads her to a chair, beside the ever stoic Marcus Bell, and it's there he stands, it's here she sits, it's where they all wait. 

She watches the minutes fade into hours, and while they do she shakes hands with the grateful, envelopes the worried and exchanges loaded glances with the few skeptics who linger. 

The faces change but there’s never an empty seat in the room. Sherlock disappears for unknown hours at a stretch and Marcus makes certain their cups are never empty. 

A nurse approaches at some point, offers to tend to the torn skin along the rise of Joan’s cheek and collar bone. Her fingers are gentle and she does not fuss and she takes Sherlock’s lurking and hovering in stride. 

When the double doors finally open again the gentle hum of near silent vigils instantly go quiet as three men in ugly green scrubs emerge, eyes searching, no doubt, for Joan. 

They start down the hall in time with Sherlock's most recent return and he stands tall, purposefully placing himself between his partner and the descending doctors. 

A protective gesture too small to grasp. 

Joan feels fingers at her elbow as Marcus takes her arm, forcing her to stand. She slips out from behind Sherlock, stands directly before him, shoulder to shoulder with Detective Bell. The masses rise behind them; the shift of feet, the rustling of clothes, and the squeak of plastic chairs sounding off in waves. 

"Dr. Watson," it's Dr. Grayson who addresses her. A stoic man of sixty-something and head of emergency surgeries here at NYU. His eyes are as direct as she remembers (his hair a little more grey) and they speak to her of things his mouth does not convey. "Captain Gregson is in recovery. We removed the two bullets from his chest. Repaired damage done to both his left and right ventricles. He's got three broken ribs and a shattered sternum. The next twenty four hours will be crucial. He's made it this far and that's half the battle. He was very lucky you were there." The last words were said with a touch of something too great to name and too judgmental to miss. 

He nods once in her direction and the conversation comes to an end. Not a second is spared, and the trio walk off the way they'd come. The room is once again thrown into silence. Marcus tightens his grip on her arm for a moment, a gesture meant to provide something positive she's sure. 

It isn’t long before Bell sends them home. She attempts a protest that does makes it past the parting of her lips before Sherlock takes her elbow and steers her towards the exit. In the end she knows it's the logical move. 

She shivers slightly in the sharp spring air as she steps outside beside Sherlock. He hails a taxi, stoic and mechanical as he opens the yellow door for her and avoids meeting her eye. It takes her a moment to step off the curb and follow his lead. 

“Come along Watson, there is work to be done.”

She stops before fully entering the cab, meets his eyes over the door. Her silence speaks volumes and he answers her as if her confusion is inexcusable “There’s a gunman at large, Watson. Someone has tried to murder the good Captain.” She nods and he steps away to enter on the opposite side. They both know she’s incapable of forgetting, even for a moment, what happened today. She felt the life pouring out of the Captain herself. No one else can understand today like she can. 

They don’t speak as they travel back home but his shoulder is pressed snuggly along the length of her arm and she knows the contact is as much for him as it is for her. 

It isn’t until the cab comes to a halt outside the brownstone that he speaks. He reaches for her wrist beside him as she reaches for the handle of the door and when his fingers take her arm its nothing more than the very tips along the line of her pulse. It makes her think of the way he holds he bow of his violin; softly and with too much reverence. 

She turns to him, and find his eyes ready, waiting for her. “You were magnificent today Watson. A true credit to the profession.” 

She nods. Not sure where her voice has gone to. When she finally finds it, it’s nothing more than a whisper. 

“Thank you.” 

He nods once, “Yes, now let us catch a shooter.”


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There have been very few people of any worth, dear Watson. I hope you know I hold none above you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is softer and a whole lot more gentle... I hope you enjoy.

The night begins in twilight. 

It begins with an evening bathed in blood red skies; filled with the hum of bees and the taste of camomile. A night of secrets shared and promises made against the grain of reality...

It begins with tea, the well rehearsed navigation of loaded glances and an aversion to lingering, heavy silences. 

It ends with the temptation to touch and an unrecognizable desire to breach boundaries for reasons that don't involve arrogance. 

It begins in truths and consequences. 

"I could stand a great deal more of this." He says without prompt or true purpose. He's braced his forearms on his knees, body angled forward as he stares down the bright green tips of his argyle socks, around the steaming mug of tea cradled in all ten of his fingertips. 

"It is a lovely night." She answers, palms cupping her own mug, the rim hovering at her mouth. Shes sitting, legs crossed where they are settled side by side, knees all but touching, on the roof top bench closest to the hives. She's got her eyes buried in the cityscape; and it's laced in the last of the sunlight as it burns through clouds and sends skyscraper length shadows across the horizon. 

It's slightly cooler than the season suggests and they've donned sweaters and prepared hot tea in an attempt to fight the chill. 

The silence between them has always been compatible, comfortable, but tonight like the last few nights, he’s found himself faced with an unknown force pulling emotions forward until they form words and he has no choice but to voice them. He clears his throat before he speaks, tries to find some control in this fathomless situation he’s created.

He shifts from hip to hip, tugs at the knot in his scarf, obviously uncomfortable with his own choice of conversation and the state of dress she deemed necessary to fight the bite in the air. He tries to break free of the doubt lingering in his thoughts before he pushes those words forward and they become confessions he cannot take back. 

"That it is, but I was referring to the pleasure of your company." He says it as if he wished it were a lot less important than it is meant to be. He clears his throat again and in true Holmes fashion, continues on. 

"I think, quite often, of where I'd be if not for you, and every time the result is the same." He does not elaborate. Gives no more but turns his purposeful gaze towards her over his shoulder. He's not one for lingering anything, let alone eye contact, so her eyes go slightly wide under his continuous stare. She watches his eyes take in her battered cheek, it’s the quickest of movements and yet she’s sure she’s seen it. So her tea cup doubles as shield as she does what she can to hide the streaks of blues and purples that are still blossoming after her encounter with the asphalt days ago. 

"There have been very few people of any worth, dear Watson. I hope you know I hold none above you." 

He drops his eyes back to his hands, his cup, or his toes, he fidgets so endlessly she cannot tell where exactly his focus truly lies.

And she can't be sure of where the sentiment is coming from. Doesn't know if it's the recent events or the turmoil of their everyday lives that's prompted him to reach for and tug at and speak of things they've never let surface. She rubs absently at the bruising along the rise of her cheek. Hates to see his face whenever he turns his eyes on her and is forced to remember the events that caused them. She’s bound to the admission that every time she watches his features shift with memory she has no choice but to do the same. 

She cannot tell him that she wakes suddenly and often with her own heart roaring in her ears. Hands sticky with the captains blood. How she sees Marcus and his sympathy, Dr. Grayson and his judgement and how she smells the ripe spring air tainted with exhaust and copper every time her face aches. 

"No need to say anything, Watson. I'm well aware you consider conversations of such an emotional magnitude out of your depth. Especially when they are your emotions on display." 

He leans back then, braces his spine along the bench, sips his tea unabashed and stands almost abruptly. 

"I, for one, have come to understand your silence as acceptance and agreement in the past. I hope to be able to consider them the same at the present." 

He turns his face toward the sky before resting his eyes on the nearly quite hives. Confessions of any nature have never been there thing. He’s closing in on pure panic when he senses her, then feels her beside him. 

She takes his cup from his grasp at his side and slips her own cool fingers in its place. She can feel him stiffen, his muscles ridged. She can sense his focus on keeping his hand from squeezing hers too tightly. She presses her face to his shoulder and inhales deeply, takes him in, takes a moment to appreciate that they’re together. To remember the last time they were this close, how they were pressed along the asphalt, the jagged road tearing at her skin, his hands, his arms, his face pressing her in against him and the ground. 

A human shield to keep her safe. 

She feels him tense and relax in spasms, knows he’s fighting urges and memories and worries just the same as she is. She shifts her weight as he lifts his arm and suddenly she’s pressed fully against him, her forehead tucked snuggly below his chin and his arms too tight around her. She feels his fingers, gentle at first, along her hairline and then his palm cupping the back of her head, pressing her closer into his embrace. 

“I can’t imagine what I’d be without you too.” She whispers into his collar bone, pulls herself closer, hands tangled in the shirt at his back. 

His fingers tug at her hair, she feels his breathing change, a sigh, an exaggerated exhale and the tips of his fingers along the line of her bruised cheek. She feels her chest tighten and her eyes burn as they stand pressed together.

The evening fades around them but they do not move. The wind kicks up and the stars struggle to make a stand in a sky filled with industrial light. 

He shifts back suddenly, pulls her chin up with the back of one hand and the finger tips of the another. Their eyes meet in the lack of light and he feels her breath catch before he can fully focus. 

He’s learned the hard way that passion, when heated, makes a fool of his self control and he knows her pride stands too tall, a safeguard, a shield, to protect a heart much more delicate then she will ever admit.

And yet here they are. 

He catches himself longing after all their missed opportunities, wondering how many minutes they’ve watched bleed into hours, their regrets and passed fears pooling together, settling in their veins, thrumming in time with their hearts, building barricades and strongholds and failsafes. 

In the next heartbeat she has her fingers tangled in his scarf and the ends of his hair. She’s lifted up on the tips of her toes, her nose skimming his before their foreheads meet. He feels her warm exhale sweep across his collar bone and before he can react, think or speak, his lips cover hers. 

Warm, soft and filled with every promise they’ve ever feared to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there will be a glaring question..."Does the Captain survive?"... And the honest truth is I don't know... I'll be sure to let you know when I figure it out...


End file.
